by Leanna Floyd
“Get going then—sorry I kept you,” he said, standing as she gathered her notes into her oversized purse. “But come by the house this weekend if you can. I know Margaret would love to see you, and I have an active consulting case I want to talk to you about—the Barton trial. The D.A. has asked me to get up to speed, and I’m going to need your help.”
“Really?” she said. “The case where the Peter Pan playboy is accused of shooting his pregnant ex?”
“That’s the one,” he said, “but you may want to be careful how you refer to him outside these walls.”
“Of course,” she said. “Sorry—I’ve seen too many tabloid headlines about the trial. Does the fact you’ve been asked to consult mean the D.A. suspects Barton of more than one murder. I mean, aren’t you usually brought in only when they’re tracking a serial?”
“I’ll explain everything when I see you this weekend—now get going!”
Brooke hugged him quickly and dashed out the door. “Thank you! It will probably be Saturday afternoon, but I’ll call first.”
Rushing down the hall, Brooke smiled to herself, thrilled at the prospect of working an actual case with her mentor. Dr. Gregory talked about many of his consultations during their conversations, but he only referred to closed cases. To have him discuss an active case was a huge milestone.
She hit the down button at the elevator and shifted the weight of her book bag higher on her shoulder. Hadn’t Jacob said something about the Barton trial? About his new boss leading defense counsel? She’d research the case online and give him a call later in the week, after he had a couple days under his belt. Enough time for him to decide what he thought of Barton, and whether he was capable of killing a defenseless pregnant woman—or maybe more.
Chapter 6
Tuesday morning, Jacob sat by the pool and read through a stack of files about the Abby Winters’ trial. Flipping through the various documents, he stopped when he came to the preliminary deposition of Katherine Lidle, age 49, Abby Winters’ mother. He’d already gathered that Mrs. Lidle was one of the prosecutor’s most powerful weapons; not only was she the victim’s mother but also the first to find her daughter in a pool of blood at the scene of the crime.
Jacob tilted the umbrella for more shade and began to read Lidle’s sworn description of the night that she discovered her daughter’s lifeless body. Apparently, Lidle’s daughter lived only a few blocks from her in a deteriorating suburb of Tampa called Shelton Beach. Lidle acknowledged that raising Abby as a single mom had been a struggle. Her daughter, to say the least, was a handful—frequently starting drama, lying to skip out of school, threatening to run away, and manipulating anyone she could. By age seventeen, Abby was caught up with a local drug dealer and going nowhere fast.
The night of her death, a panicked Abby had called Katherine from an impromptu party at a girlfriend’s apartment. The transcript of the actual call was included: “Mom, it’s me. Please call me. It’s Zach—he’s here with Brent and their friends. They wouldn’t leave me alone, so I finally told Zach about the baby. That’s when he started going crazy—shoving and pushing me. Mom, he said he’s going to kill me if I don’t have an abortion. I’m going home now—should never have come anyway. Will you meet me at my house? Please? I really need you.”
Katherine had tried to calm her daughter and instructed her to leave the party and return home to the small bungalow in Shelton Beach that Zach had rented for her. Katherine would meet her there. Upon arriving at Abby’s house about an hour later, Katherine noticed two cars parked at the end of the block. One car was running, maybe an Audi or BMW she thought, and from a distance, she couldn’t see anything through its tinted windows. Seconds later, the car peeled out in the opposite direction.
Lidle had testified that she instantly felt afraid something bad had happened. As her heart began to race, she quickened her pace and ran to the front door of her daughter’s house. Katherine pounded on the door, and soon Abby cracked it open and peered through the small opening.
“Are you all right?” Katherine had asked.
Abby had assured her, “Yes, Mom—everything’s fine. I… I just got a little freaked out when Zach started saying all that shit about me. I’m okay—really. Sorry I overreacted.” Lidle had insisted on coming inside and perused the inside of her daughter’s home to make sure everything really was okay. Although the house was a mess, Lidle spotted nothing out of the ordinary, well aware of Abby’s poor housekeeping skills.
Mrs. Lidle did not tell her daughter about the cars she’d seen at the end of the block because she didn’t want to worry Abby. Katherine also acknowledged her daughter could be overly dramatic and sometimes exaggerated the truth in order to get attention from others. After about five minutes, Abby shooed her mom to leave and reassured her, “Everything’s under control. I promise.” Katherine described her daughter’s tone as apologetic, while she herself was frustrated at falling for another situation where Abby was only crying wolf.
Nonetheless, Katherine had testified; she still felt uneasy. As she was leaving, she could tell the remaining car at the end of the block was gone. Everything appeared relatively normal for a late spring night. She got in her car and started driving back to her home. As she pulled up to a stop sign a few blocks away, Katherine’s cell rang, showing it was Abby. When she answered there was no one on the line. Katherine hung up and repeatedly tried to call Abby several times with no luck. Wondering if something was actually wrong or if Abby was just playing games, Katherine was torn. After several more tries to Abby’s phone—confirmed at twelve attempts—Katherine decided to drive back to her daughter’s place.
And that’s where she found her daughter five minutes later in a pool of blood.
Katherine Lidle called 911 at 12:38 A.M. saying her daughter had been shot and wasn’t breathing. Eight minutes later, paramedics confirmed two gunshots to the victim’s head; she was beyond resuscitation. Two police officers arrived ten minutes later, examined the scene, and without a weapon at the scene, called it in as a homicide. As a formality, the doctor on call from the county medical examiner’s office pronounced Abby dead at 2:17 A.M.
Katherine was brought in for questioning, and her description of the scene had been transcribed:
“The garage was open, but it was dark inside. I knew something was wrong—just knew it! Then I used my phone as a flashlight, and that’s when I saw her… a dark pool of blood surrounding her. There was a smell like fireworks, gunpowder I guess, lingering in the air. Time stood still. I began to think maybe this was all just a bad dream. I began to scream and cry, ‘Wake up! Abby, wake up, honey! Please wake up!’ Then I knelt on the concrete floor next to my baby, and I could barely recognize her. Her body was still warm; she was trying to catch her breath. There was just so much blood coming out. I placed my mouth to hers, and I tried to breathe into her, but the blood just kept pouring out. My breathing wasn’t going into her. I tilted her head to the side to try and drain some of the blood out of her mouth, but it just kept pouring out. She had a faint pulse. My Abby was still alive, barely holding on, starring straight up to the carport ceiling like she didn’t even know I was there. Her stomach was dark with blood, and a pool had formed beneath her, and I tried to stop the bleeding by placing my finger inside her wound. That’s when I realized she’d been shot. I screamed at her to stay with me. But I was alone; she was gone. I stopped what I was doing and started rocking back and forth…squeezing my eyes shut as tight as I could, begging her to come back to me.”
Jacob closed the file folder and watched a tanned body in a blue bikini slide into the pool. Several residents, all young and athletic looking, had gathered poolside. The sun had climbed and he was beginning to sweat. Time for a nice cold drink and maybe a workout at the gym. Then, he had to get down to the office—he liked the sound of that—and get Emily to fill out all of his HR forms for him.
As he gathered his towel from the chaise and collected the file folders, he found it hard to imagine a y
oung woman, just as beautiful and vibrant as those lounging by the pool, having her life end in such a horrific fashion. Katherine Lidle’s testimony was certainly compelling. And it would definitely play well on the witness stand—a mother’s tears would be hard to overcome with a sympathetic jury.
Still, this was his job now. Jacob had to stop thinking about this case as a mother losing her daughter and start seeing it as objectively as possible. He had to start thinking about what Lisa DeMato would paint as her version of the truth.
About what it would take to get Zach Barton acquitted.
Chapter 7
The rest of Brooke’s week flew by, with excellent research progress made, she discovered a conference paper that was a veritable gold mine of other sources, and all of her appointments were going smoothly. She had a single mother struggling with an addiction to online shopping, two undergrads wrestling with their parents over different but similar issues of control, and several other community clients. While she felt drained at the end of each day, Brooke also enjoyed feeling as if she made a difference in these people’s lives; somehow, she helped them make sense of their world and the choices before them. If Brooke believed anything, she believed everyone always had choices. They might be very limited or simply choices about how to respond, but people always had choices.
On Saturday, after cleaning her apartment, going for a quick swim on the beach (The water was starting to get cooler—fall was definitely in the air.), and grading a few papers, Brooke kept her promise to drop by the home of Dr. and Mrs. Gregory. They lived in an older suburb, a few miles inland from the Bay, in a beautiful Craftsman-style bungalow. Their two sons were grown, with one in California and the other in London. Pleasantries were exchanged and iced tea was enjoyed on the screened-in porch by their tiny pool, and then Mrs. Gregory left her husband and Brooke to discuss business.
“As I mentioned during our appointment this week,” Dr. Gregory began, “I recall, you seemed familiar with our defendant, Mr. Peter Pan.”
Brooke smiled sheepishly and said, “Yes, a little more than when we last spoke—more than just the headlines.” She started to mention Jacob’s new job at the law firm providing the defense team for Zach Barton but for some reason decided to wait. She and Jacob had not been able to catch up with one another and had only texted a few times.
Brooke at least wanted to see what her best friend thought of Barton before conflicts of interest came up.
“Well, here’s a case file with preliminaries, the coroner’s report, and some of my notes,” he said, handing her a large manila envelope.
Brooke stared at it and asked, “Great—what would you like me to research for you?”
“It’s not just research I need help with, Brooke,” he said, smiling. “I’ve been waiting on the right time to bring you into an active case, and this seems like as good a time as any. So, when my old friend Buddy Armstrong called me, I told him I would need an associate to help me on this case, and he agreed. Which means you’ll be paid at the same rate I am by the D.A.’s office. That is, if you’re willing to come on board and help. I don’t want to add something else to your plate if you don’t have the capacity to give it your full attention.”
Brooke knew William ‘Buddy’ Armstrong was the Florida State Attorney General. She swallowed hard and tried to process the implications of Dr. Gregory’s words. After a moment, she said, “Well, I’m honored—and I would love to help you with this case. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
“I understand,” said Dr. Gregory. “But as I said, I’ve been wanting to do for some time. You’re definitely ready to profile a case, and this one has some interesting angles. Barton may not be a killer at all, let alone a serial murderer. But there are some curious aspects to this case… well, you’ll see. I don’t want to bias your assessment more than I have already.”
Brooke nodded and opened the envelope, feeling very much like Pandora about to unleash all kinds of sorrows into the world. And as she gazed at the coroner’s photographs of Abby Winters, Brooke felt a deep sadness inside. The young woman had been beautiful, with long brunette hair and golden tanned skin. In the photo her brown, almost amber, eyes stared back at Brooke, lifeless and yet begging for someone to avenge her death, to see that justice was served to her killer.
Brooke knew she had accepted Dr. Gregory’s offer, but now she wondered if she could also accept Abby’s. And what about Jacob? Could she tell him that she was working on the opposite side versus his new employer? Would they perhaps even see each other in the courtroom? Was there a potential conflict of interest with both their involvements in the case? Her mind spun with questions.
As she leafed through the other documents, the photograph of the dead woman caught her eye again. They were about the same age, and it felt odd looking at someone who might have been a co-worker or fellow grad student. Almost like looking in a mirror.
Brooke shivered.
And even though she replaced the photo back in the envelope, she knew Abby Winters’ eyes would stay with her for a long time.
Chapter 8
Jacob pulled into the courthouse parking lot, already teeming with people, cars, reporters, and mobile satellites for live news broadcasts. He circled the block until he saw a sign indicating the parking garage for judges, attorneys, and court employees. His first week at Taylor, Dwights and Associates had flown by as he crammed in as much research, data, and legal jargon as possible. Lisa DeMato seemed pleased he would be working with her and the half-dozen other members of her team.
The main courthouse was a huge colonial style building made up of red bricks with white trim that bordered the windows. Five stories tall with green reflective windows, the front of the building declared it to be the Sixth Judicial Circuit Court of Florida. With various additions and new buildings expanding the site over the decades, the offices of the court now sprawled along a ten-block radius. Four large pillars guarded the front entrance with a dome crowning the top of the building. In front of the dome was a large oversized clock with Roman numerals reminding attendees of the importance of punctuality.
Jacob parked his leased Lexus in the parking spot closest to the private entrance of the building. Curious to check out the boisterous crowd that had gathered, he peered out from behind a concrete pillar and immediately saw clusters of cameras swarming the front steps of the courthouse.
Protestors had already gathered, holding signs that read ‘Life at Conception’, ‘Baby Killer’, and ‘Abby Needs Justice’. Just then a black SUV pulled up, and two women emerged. One Jacob recognized as Katherine Lidle, the victim’s mother, whose preliminary deposition he had read several times now. She was of medium height and slightly overweight, with autumn brown hair and matching big brown doe eyes. Deep lines on her weathered face told the stories of her life. She wore an oversized beige sweater with black slacks and held a large box of tissues; she appeared to be trembling as she held onto the younger woman—presumably her other daughter, Rachael Winters—for support.
Reporters encircled the two women, thrusting microphones in their faces. Jacob strolled closer eager to hear what Mrs. Lidle would say just as a tall, heavyset man burst through the pack to shield the two women. He wore a dark grey suit with bright blue pinstripes with matching cobalt-colored tie and pocket square. Middle-aged and clean-shaven, with latte-colored skin, Caleb Carver was the state prosecutor assigned to this case. An established star with several significant convictions on his resume, Carver was also known for his dramatic, eloquent speech and flamboyant designer suits. A lifelong civil servant eager to be appointed to the State Supreme Court, Carver had already made it clear he would not rest until Zach Barton was behind bars with a life sentence.
“Mrs. Lidle and Ms. Winters have no comment at this time. Please respect their privacy during this emotionally devastating time of seeking justice for the daughter and sister they lost. Now, please, let us through,” said Carver. He placed an arm around each woman and ushered them into the courthouse.
Spying another employee entrance nearby, Jacob pulled his bar-coded access card from his wallet and made his way into the cavernous lobby. A police officer scanned his ID card and nodded as Jacob waited to walk through the metal detector.
The crowd shuffling forward reflected all kinds of people from different walks of life. Hardcore men with tattoos covering their necks and arms, women in flip flops with dirty feet exposed, mothers with their babies waddling in tow, a few who looked like college students, some who looked like office workers, and then a handful of lawyers dressed in dark suits.
Once inside the lobby, he knew it would be quicker to take the stairs to the third floor where the largest courtroom had been reserved. He had been instructed to look for a conference room marked ‘Counsel’, which he found two doors down from the large auditorium where the trial would be held. Once inside, Jacob was surprised to see he was apparently the last one to arrive. The three men and three women on the defense team were all listening attentively as Lisa DeMato went over the proceedings of the day and for what they should be watching. She paused momentarily when Jacob entered the room, nodded curtly as he took a chair, and then continued.
“As I was saying, I want you to watch every juror very carefully during my opening statement. I’ve assigned two jurors to each of you—yes?”
Jacob had raised his hand. “Which jurors would you like me to watch?”
“Ah, yes, Jacob,” she said. “I have a very special assignment for you. I want you to be watching Judge Ranier. If she blinks, twitches an eyebrow, or her stomach rumbles, I want to know it.”
Everyone smiled and Jacob nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am.” He had to hand it to her—she was quite the performer. Elizabeth Anne DeMato was in her mid-fifties with sandy blonde hair, and a few dark brown roots poking through. Fair skinned and petite, she had an athletic, tomboyish build. She wore a tailored black suit, an elegant choker-length strand of pearls, and a white linen collared blouse. She looked the part…a tough, successful lawyer with no weakness. Smart, elegant, and ruthless as they come—that’s what everyone at the office said about her. She rarely smiled and often looked like she smelled something offensive. She was a no-nonsense, dot your i’s and cross your t’s type of woman. Often labeled a heartless bitch, especially by opposing counsel, it was hard to imagine Ms. DeMato ever letting loose in the real world.
